A Time of Mourning
by JoJo4
Summary: Why did Eowyn really say what she did at the end of The Steward and the King? (COMPLETE)
1. Chapter I

Author's Notes: This is the beginning of what's looking to be a 5 chapter story.

Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me, and I am not making any money from writing this.

* * *

At first they were so happy that they didn't think.

They were sitting in the courtyard of the Sixth Circle under their favorite walnut tree—the one closest to the Eastern wall. The weather was warm now, sometimes quite hot, and Éowyn had not worn her new cloak, but a light cambric dress that Ioreth had brought for her from a seamstress in the Fifth Circle. She was leaning against the tree trunk, which rested by the narrow gravel walkway separting the lawn from the garden. Faramir resting nearby on the clipped grass opposite, and they were admiring one another in silence, dreaming of the near future when the heroes returned from Cormallen and they would marry. When the silence had grown too long, Éowyn felt the desire to fill it with something, and yet with her maiden's modesty could not think of how to cross the distance between them. She looked at Faramir inquisitively, beseechingly, but he seemed content to continue on without speaking. Without knowing why, she threw a pebble at him. But Faramir too was in a playful mood and returned fire with a small twig.

In retaliation, she hit him on the chest with another pebble and scooped a handful of the gravel.

"Stop! I concede!" cried Faramir, throwing up his hands in defeat. "Your weaponry is far superior to mine."

Éowyn tossed the gravel back where she had acquired it, grinning in triumph. "Will all our future disagreements be this easy to win?"

Faramir laughed. "Why of course. Don't you know that all the men of Gondor are completely henpecked by their wives?"

In mock outrage at the term 'henpecked,' Éowyn got up to leave. "Well, that won't do," she said, stepping onto the walkway. "I'll have to go find a more challenging husband."

Suddenly, Faramir caught her by the wrist and pulled her down to him on the lawn. Éowyn tumbled willingly into his arms, where she had been longing to be all night, and Faramir grasped her tightly as if he were wrestling a wild boar. "I'll give you challenging," he growled, pinning her to the earth while he loomed over her. "No, Faramir!" she squeaked, still playing along. Then he kissed her. Her back was flat upon the cool grass, and Faramir was settling over her, his weight pressing against her bosom. She felt her legs wrap around his, pulling her towards him desperately. His hands caressed her face, his fingers touched the nape of her neck.

Éowyn was breathing hard when he released her. Both of them became very shy and could not look at one another, knowing that what they wanted could not be yet. Faramir allowed her to sit upright and move further away from him, sitting to his right without touching him; but Éowyn surprised him by touching his hair with her left hand. Gently, she brushed his dark locks away from his brow.

"My brother will like you," she said, her eyes meeting his, and Faramir was pleased seeing as he would meet Éomer King tomorrow.

Faramir caressed the lily wrist of the hand playing in his hair, the hand that led to her once-broken shield arm. He lowered it to his lips and kissed the place that led to her calloused palm. Éowyn's lips parted and she sighed, a pleasant sound.

"I wish we were man and wife already," he told her.

Éowyn, knew he was being neither realistic nor completely serious, but felt it was dangerous to answer in his serious tone. Bending her head in exaggerated thought, she made a great show of coming up with a solution. She bit her lip and squinted her eyes. Then, at last, she appeared to have found one.

"I hear that in Harad, when a man wishes to take a wife, he rides up to her door, throws her over his horse and takes her home."

The scholar in Faramir couldn't help but be intrigued, and so he missed her sarcasm. His features were alight with interest. "Really?"

"No, I made that up."

"Oh," said Faramir, both amused and disappointed. "Well, I can still kiss you."

And he did exactly that.

* * *

Éomer rode at the column's head, beside Lord Aragorn, who was to be crowned king that day. Within two furlongs of the city, the great road that cut through the Pelennor had been rendered indistinguishable from the field itself, for the surrounding once-lush grass had been trampled to dust. All around them lay the wreckage of battle, though the corpses had been burned or buried. Pieces of armor, broken weapons and tattered standards were strewn over the field. Yet the mood was not gloomy, for everywhere ran children, picking up those discarded fragments as souvenirs. Citizens of Minas Tirith, and those who had come from the far corners of Gondor to celebrate, now poured onto the same field that they had once feared to tread lest the enemy catch them off guard. They had erected great pavilions and tents of many colors along the outskirts of the city from which the sounds of music and laughter emanated.

The sun shone upon the brows of the Lords of the West, which bore coronets of silver, gold and mithril. Their beards and locks were combed and oiled, and their armor glinted like fire. All the lords and knights rode clothed in livery of many colors. Proud were the steeds upon which they sat, stepping over the torn up ground with their heads held high, as if the horses themselves understood their part in the Great Triumph.

As the column approached, all came out to see the victorious; and some called out the names of fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons when they saw them returned safely from the gates of Mordor. Now and then a soldier would stray from the column to greet his son or wife or daughter, swing them into his arms or upon his horse with a shout. Then back he rode, rejoining the column with a smile upon his beaming face.

And when the column was nearly to the pavilions erected within one-furlong's distance from the barrier, Prince Imrahil and his sons themselves broke from the column in order to hail a young maiden galloping towards them on a snow-white palfrey. Éomer assumed this to be the Princess Lothiriel, whom Imrahil had not stopped praising since their victory. Éomer King glanced briefly at the happy reunion, but otherwise kept his gaze forward, ever looking to the broken walls of the city. The white flag of the Stewards flew from every tower, and the light glinted from off the mountain like the hottest part of a blacksmith's fire, which is both painful and beautiful to behold. Minas Tirith--ancient and broken, well tested and true. How could he contain his joy at seeing what he thought he should never see again?

Beside him Aragorn spoke, "I know what you are feeling, for I feel it too. It is a miracle, what has happened."

"Yes," answered Éomer, the awe in his voice apparent. Yet Aragorn did not feel everything that he did. Behind Éomer Masters Gimli and Legolas were laughing with the hobbits, enjoying some joke or another. Éomer wished he could join them, but his fears drowned out their words. His heart foreboded what tidings he should find within the White City. He felt all too keenly his sister's absence. Éowyn had won great renown for herself, and by right ought to have ridden at his side. Yet she had sent him only a brief message that she was still suffering from her wounds and could not come to Cormallen. It had been impossible to divine her meaning from the scant words she had given the herald. "I cannot come," she had communicated. "I must remain in the Houses a little longer." But the hobbytla, Meriadoc, had come, and he had suffered from the same sickness. Did Éowyn's sadness linger? Would she come to greet him at the gate?

Imrahil returned to the column, sons and daughter in tow. Éomer saw they were riding towards him, and so he plastered a smile on his face. Truly, he was happy. Merely preoccupied.

The maiden did not appear to be fooled. She reigned in her horse with a studiously concerned expression upon her lovely face. Then she pushed a few stray hairs behind her ears, which drew attention to her delicate neck. Éomer liked her immediately. But Imrahil had not stopped riding, and continued on to Lord Aragorn a few feet away, who had strayed to the right of the column in order to speak with a member of the crowd gathering by the road. Lothiriel followed dutifully, although her gaze remained on Éomer. As she was introduced to Lord Aragorn, Éomer watched the proceedings with interest. Yet, he felt a great deal more pleasure when Imrahil and his daughter returned to him.

Prince Imrahil approached with a broad smile on his face as he reached for his daughter's hand. He was a kind man, and not conniving. It was obvious that he was not attempting to play matchmaker. He was merely a proud father, who had not seen his daughter in many months, and was now elated to see her again, so happy and beautiful. He wanted everyone to share his pride.

"Lothiriel, I present to you Éomer, Éomund's son, and King of Rohan," said Imrahil in a very casual voice. Then he made a motion from Éomer to Lothiriel. "My daughter, Éomer King." Éomer noticed that Imrahil had introduced _him_ to Lothiriel and not Lothiriel to _him_, which was an odd breach of etiquette. Since he was of higher rank, she should have been presented to him. He was not offended, of course: only curious as to Imrahil's meaning. Perhaps he was saying that he was not attempting to arrange anything, and that he wanted him and Lady Lothiriel to have only a passing acquaintance.

At any rate, she did not attempt conversation, and Imrahil did not encourage it. Being a man, this seeming rejection only piqued Éomer's interest more. With almost all thought of Éowyn lost for the moment, he dared another glance at Lothiriel as she rode off to meet her brothers.

Elphir tossed a clump of grass at her, which caused her to sneeze. When Éomer heard her laugh, all thought of his sister left him completely.

* * *

Faramir was extremely tired when he awoke, for he had not returned to his chambers until half the night had passed. Perhaps this was not strictly within the bounds of propriety, but neither he nor Éowyn had cared. Nor, they guessed (and guessed correctly), would the people of the city; for all held them both in such high esteem that they could do no wrong. However, both he and Éowyn had realized that their languorous walks through the garden were at an end now that her brother was about to arrive. Whereas before they had been free, now they would be accountable to others and, no doubt, expected to attend the rowdy festivities that would inevitably follow the coronation. They had intentionally lost track of time.

Well, now he was paying for it.

The Steward stretched his limbs, yawned and rolled out of bed. He strolled to the ivory wash basin sitting before his looking glass and splashed the cool water over his face before looking up to see the damage. There were dark circles, but other than that he appeared healthy and happy.

His smiled with pleasure when he remembered that Éowyn would be receiving his gift right about now. A jewel on a gold chain--one of his mother's necklaces. He guessed that in general Eowyn was not a woman to be impressed with jewels, but nevertheless, it was something he could give her. She would be impressed with the thought.

When he was done washing, he called in his manservant to help him dress. However, Faramir dismissed him when it was time to gird on his sword. This he did himself, for it was his father's sword, and this was the first time he had ever worn it. It seemed a private matter.

In the end, however, the momentous nature of the event was spoiled when Faramir remembered that he must wear the sword hanging on his right as a sign of good-will. He then fumbled with the weapon, attempting to put it on in a way that felt unnatural. His wounded arm hindered even more when it refused to bend as far as he needed. Thus, the process of strapping on his sword took up a precious ten minutes at least. By the time he had finished, the bells were ringing from the towers. That was the signal that the King had been spotted in the distance.

Faramir panicked when he realized that he would be late. He bolted from his chambers, but felt somewhat lopsided as he walked with his sword hanging awkwardly on the right. He wondered if Éowyn would laugh at him, tripping over his sword like a clumsy child.

As he swept into the corridor, his manservant ran after him to cast a mantle of the deepest blue over his shoulders. Before Faramir could thank him, the same servant thrust the white rod of the Stewards into his hand.

Then the Steward proceeded down the steps, which led to his mount that was hopefully waiting outside. On the way, another pair of footsteps joined his. They were heavy as the man's steel sabatons clinked against the stone floor. Faramir knew without turning that this was Húrin, warden of the keys.

"Are we late, Lord Húrin?" asked Faramir, without missing a step.

"Not yet, my Lord."

They rushed to the base of the steps, the bells becoming deafening for a few moments as they passed beneath one of the bell towers. When they had passed through the tunnel, there were even more footsteps following from behind. Thus, the last ruling Steward and his entourage passed through the bell gate that opened to the fifth circle of the city, and there were greeted by the morning sun.

Faramir leapt upon his horse, as did Húrin and the other great nobles, who had remained in the city. Then they spurred their horses to a brisk walk, and prepared to meet their king.

* * *

Éowyn and Marshal Elfhelm had arrived along with all the Captains of the Riddermark well before the bells of the city had first sounded. Earlier in the morning a few of the soldiers had decided to hold a boulder-throwing contest with a few fragments taken from the Orc projectiles, which had so recently pummeled the city walls. As more and more men expressed interest the Lady Éowyn had been sent for to serve as the judge.

Although, she had been exhausted, Éowyn had complied, eager to take part in her peoples' camaraderie. There had been great hopes that the winner of the contest would be given a kiss as his prize, but Éowyn had refused and there had been a great joke that Faramir would storm down from the citadel and punish them for their insolence. In the end she had kissed the winner on his forehead. But now that was all over; the bells were ringing; and the King was within sight.

However, Faramir was not, and Éowyn worried that they might have stayed up too late the previous night. He had probably slept in by accident. Even though it was probably not the case, Éowyn felt as if the whole city were watching her—wondering where their Steward was and wondering if perhaps she had left him tied up somewhere.

The men had known about it…the city knew about it. She didn't mind them knowing, but she hoped no one would let anything about her betrothal slip to her brother. That was a privilege all her own, and she anticipated it with a mixture of both excitement and dread.

Then the hurried clop of many hooves was heard and forth rode the Steward and his men to the city gate. Éowyn felt her heart burst with joy as she beheld him for the first time in his official robes of state. She did not rejoice because he was the Steward and she was to be the Stewardess. She rejoiced because she saw him looking so formal and aloof, yet knew that even as he made his way towards the city gate holding his white rod of office to greet his sovereign, he was thinking of her.

The ceremony was brief, for the day had become hot and all the lords were melting under their heavy robes and armor. Éomer guessed that the Steward had spoken faster than was entirely necessary, but felt grateful. Also, he had wanted very much to speak with Éowyn. And so, he swung up on Firefoot's back and directed him to his sister rather than remain beside Aragorn. _King Elessar_, Éomer corrected himself.

Éowyn had gone to find Windfola, but she had probably seen him coming, for she remained where she was after she swung up onto the horse's back.

She seemed to watch him with some trepidation, but she was radiant as he had not seen her in many years. He led Firefoot as close to her horse as was safe, and then he gathered her in a firm embrace.

"Éowyn," he murmured, overcome with emotion. The last time he had held her, she had been so weak, so frail. And even that had been a miracle, for he had left her for dead on the battlefield. Now she was clutching him back tightly with strong arms. The war was over, and all was well. Or so he thought.

When he pulled away from her, he noticed the slight puffiness below her eyes, signs that she was not sleeping well. He wondered whether that was due to her illness or for some other reason. He hoped it was not on Aragorn's account, for he had only recently learned that the King was promised to another, and he was certain that Éowyn did not know this. He had great affection and respect for Lord Aragorn, but in this matter of his sister he felt the man had behaved ill. But perhaps, were he in the same position, he would not have acted any differently.

"Éomer," said Éowyn, smoothing out the wrinkles she had made in his cape. She did not notice his concern for her. "It is so good to see you again, and I have so much to tell you . . . "

Éomer would have remained by her side all day to hear whatever it was she had to say, if Erchirion, Imrahil's son, had not interrupted. He galloped in and reared his horse, as if to show off his horsemanship. "My Lord, the procession is leaving you behind. Hurry up, or you'll be left with the women."

Then he noticed Éowyn, who had been partially hidden from his sight behind her brother. Erchirion reddened a little when he saw her and then galloped away without saying anything else.

Éomer returned his attention to his sister. "We will talk as we go up."

"Was that one of the Prince's sons?" she asked. "I saw them talking to each other."

"Yes. That was Lord Erchirion, his second son," replied Éomer, suddenly fired by a new idea at her curiosity. As far as he knew, Éowyn had never met or seen Imrahil other than that terrible day on the Pelennor, and she had been unconscious then. Perhaps, then, she had liked the look of one of his sons, and had inquired after him during the ceremony. That might be a good match for his sister. Or perhaps Elphir or Amrothos if she did not like Erchirion. They were all good men, if a little impetuous. He wouldn't push her to marry any of them, but if her sudden happiness was due to Aragorn's return alone, then it might help her to forget him later if she had someone else.

He quizzed her as they made their way through the city. "Why didn't you come to Cormallen?"

Éowyn blushed a little, which was remarkable. Éomer was not accustomed to seeing his sister's face flush. Nor was he accustomed to that secretive little smile that followed. He was intrigued.

She pushed her golden tresses behind her back, for they had fallen in her face, and stammered as she searched for a response. But then another interruption intruded upon their conversation, for an old woman tugged gently on Éowyn's skirts. To his surprise, the woman handed to his sister a small bundle of white flowers. Asphodel. That was what the Gondorrim used for wedding garlands.

"Thank you," he heard Éowyn say to the woman in response to something he hadn't heard. Éomer's brow furrowed with suspicion. Éowyn did indeed have many things to tell him.

"What did she say?" he pressed her.

Éowyn sniffed the flowers, still smiling. She was off in another world and hadn't heard the question. So Éomer repeated it.

"Oh, she wished me joy," was her vague answer. Éomer might have been irritated, but he sensed that Éowyn was not purposely lying to him. She was merely preoccupied with some thought, and didn't seem to notice that no one else knew what it was.

Or maybe he was the only one who didn't know what it was. She hadn't mentioned Aragorn, so perhaps that wasn't it after all. It occurred to Éomer that she might have met someone else during her brief stay in the city.

But then, why had her eyes fallen upon Aragorn so often during the ceremony? She had gazed upon the king with such love and joy.

Éomer was about to tell her once and for all that the King was in love with another, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to do it. It would either shatter her happiness, or make him look like a fool for thinking something that wasn't so. He determined to let her come to him. Eventually, Éowyn would tell him.

But if it was Aragorn…well, maybe Imrahil would say something first about a possible union.

As Éomer thought of Imrahil, he searched for his daughter and found Lothiriel up ahead, this time conversing with Legolas. An expression similar to his sister's came over his face; and the two siblings continued riding in silence, though neither one realized they weren't speaking.


	2. Chapter II

Chapter II

* * *

Éowyn regretted not telling her brother her news during the ride to the citadel, for after the feast began they had found no other opportunity to speak intimately. All day she had been pulled this way and that-like a rope being stretched to its limit-in order to be introduced to the many illustrious personages now staying as Elessar's guests. Of these, many were those she had been longing to meet, but a larger portion of them were people of whom she had never heard anything. She hadn't minded at first, but now it was evening, and she hadn't seen Faramir all day other than the few times they had passed each other. In a way this had not been unpleasant, for each time they passed their hands had brushed quite consciously. The minutes afterward had been quite romantic as she would be unable to concentrate on anything else but the memory of his fleeting touch. However, their paths had not crossed often with Faramir's cousins running him around the city and the hobbits had occupied much of her time. They were seldom in the same building, let alone the same room.

Now all the Lords and Ladies had gathered in the Great Hall for the evening, but Éomer was talking with Imrahil's pretty daughter and paid no attention to his sister, who was beginning to feel that there was no chance of speaking to him about her betrothal tonight. Éowyn herself was seated at the main table at the front of the Hall still sipping her wine, when she sensed someone's gaze upon her. She looked up to see Faramir beaming at her from a separate table snuggled in between two great stone pillars. Her face lit up to see him watching her so unabashedly, head resting on his hands. Had he been sitting there hidden the whole time? Surely not. He had been sitting at the head table during the meal; but he seemed so comfortable where he was now that Éowyn decided he must have been there quite a while. How silly of him not to have come talk to her!

She peered at him through lowered eye lashes, pretending to be coy. She traced her finger over the polished wood table, following the grain until her finger ran into her wine goblet. After sipping it, she checked to see if he was still watching her. He was, head still supported by his hands folded under his chin. Only when he met her eyes did he move, stretching his arms and yawning with great exaggeration. Then he grinned at her and made a little gesture with his head towards the nearest exit.

_Oh_, she thought as she realized where this game of flirtation was leading them.

Looking around to see if anyone was watching, she eased her way out of the chair and headed towards him. Then she walked passed him, pausing only to whisper, "_Garden_," as she hurried by. Her hand had brushed lightly over his shoulder as she spoke, and the touch made the flesh from her fingers to her arm tingle with excitement.

Faramir pretended he hadn't heard and continued sipping his own wine, until he made sure that Éowyn had disappeared through one of the side doors. Then he got up, pushed in his chair, and scurried in the same direction.

He followed her down the hall at a safe length, enjoying her little game. It was like conducting a secret affair, except it was better because no one would care if they were caught. Faramir continued to trail her until she rounded a dark corner. Then, as he turned into the corridor where she had gone, he saw to his surprise that she had disappeared.

A finger tapped him on the shoulder. Knowing it was her, he caught the offending hand and swept her out of her hiding place and into his arms. Their lips met. His hands found themselves wound in her golden tresses; hers went around his shoulders, pressing him closer to her. Then his slid his hands lower to the small of her back. Faramir lifted her into the air and spun her around as she laughed into his kisses.

Faramir broke away with a whoop. "Éowyn!" he announced, still twirling her. "The King has given me the whole of Ithilien to be my princedom." He was unimaginably happy. Éowyn's soft bodice was pressed intimately against his own, and her gentle hands were caressing the soft hairs at the back of his neck as she rained little kisses on his cheek, then his ear, and finally his lips. He loved her so much. All he could think of was how good it felt to hold her, to feel her touching him, to hear the tinkling of her laughter. How wonderful everything would be for them in the future! And how close that future was already.

"I can rebuild Minas Ithil," he exclaimed, setting her down at last, but not releasing her. She shared the intensity of his enthusiasm. He could tell, for her eyes were aglow and she was still smiling. He kissed her forehead again, feeling that it was essential that he be as near to her as possible. Everything he did from now on, he only could do if he shared it with her. "I will clear out all the darkness, the filth, and make the land whole once more. And you will be at my side. You will help me, and you shall be my Princess, as high and beautiful as Queen Evenstar herself!"

"I will do so more than gladly," she replied, joyfully. "Princess or no, but I honor you for your praise. And I love you."

Faramir beamed, basking in her words. He kissed her hand in reply, and then offered her his arm, which she took gladly. "Shall we to the garden, my Lady?"

"We shall."

As they walked, they spoke of their lives together: of the past and present and most especially of the brilliant future. Éowyn forgot that she had not told her brother, and Faramir forgot about the complicated wedding preparations that awaited them. They strolled onward, lost entirely in each other.

Much later as they stood by the wall of the Houses of Healing, cuddling closer in order to keep warm in the chilly night airÉowyn at last broached the subject of the wedding.

"Will it be in Rohan or Gondor? My brother will most likely be anxious to return to Rohan. We could be married very quickly before he leaves," she said. "Or perhaps you could ride with us and we could be wed in my homeland. I should like to see it once again. One last time."

Faramir laughed. "One last time? You speak as if I will keep you locked in our bedroom after we are married. Certainly you shall see your homeland one last time. And you shall even see it two and three and more last times."

Éowyn looked again over the wall at the long stretch of pavilions and camp fires where lesser celebrations were taking place. If she had seen the Pelennor this way a month ago, she never would have guessed that it could have been a battlefield.

"How silly I am being" she said. "But I cannot help but feel a little sad to leave my people. I do not see why, for it was not so long ago that I could not bear the thought of remaining among them for another day."

"That is something I can well understand" Faramir answered. "When my father first placed me in command of the Ithilien rangers, I rejoiced at the chance to prove myself. Yet it was a long time before I did not mourn the city of my fathers." Here he paused and clutched her more tightly, as if seeking her support.

Éowyn turned around in his embrace, but he was still looking off into the distance. Her hand came up to stroke the soft hair of his beard.

"And yet . . . " he continued, his voice growing quiet. "What was there in Minas Tirith for me to miss?"

"You missed your brother, perhaps."

"I did, but when I was in Ithilien, Boromir was seldom in the city."

Éowyn rested her head upon his shoulder, taking in his scent upon his cloak. "I miss the hall of Meduseld and the smell of pine wood burning in the hearth. And the feel of the wooden planks and the pellets of wolves beneath my bare feet as I walk about my room at night. The trickle of the fountain outside. The view from the peak of the steps before the golden entry doors."

"Don't you miss the stables?" he asked, gently tucking a few loose strands of gold behind her ear.

"Of course I miss the stables," she answered, so quickly that it made him laugh. "But shall I not have stables in Ithilien?"

Faramir was amused by her pointed question, knowing that she was at once demanding and teasing him. "If my lady desires a replica of the stables at Edoras, she shall have them."

"You are far too lenient with your women, Man of Gondor," she said. "How am I ever to respect you?" But then she grew serious again and kissed him lightly upon the mouth. "Did you miss the Tower of the Sun something like that?"

"Yes, it was something like that," he answered.

"But . . . " she continued. "I think it is not really fair to call Minas Tirith the city of your fathers."

"Oh?" he questioned her, perplexed.

"Nay, my lord, for I have heard it said that the Stewards hail from Emyn Arnen, where lie in shambles the remnants of a grand palace."

"Aaaah" he said, at last understanding her. "Shambles and remnants, yes; but grand and palatial, no. It was the ancestral home of the House of Húrin before we became the House of Mardil. Long ago the Ruling Stewards abandoned it the elements. However, if you would like to see our future home, I will gladly lead you there, provided you promise me beforehand that you won't run home to Rohan as soon as you see it."

"May I be cursed if I ever do such a thing" she told him. But then he kissed her again and for a long time there was no talking.

* * *

Éomer was having a considerably less amorous conversation with Lothiriel of Dol Amroth. While he on the one hand grew closer to losing his heart with each passing minute, the Princess of Dol Amroth was unreadable. Her replies were brief, few and candid. She was not even attempting to flirt, although sometimes during a lull in conversation the Princess would look directly at him as if attempting to ascertain what sort of man he really was. Éomer thought it was strange that she did not turn away blushing as most maidens did. He found it both pleasant and unnerving that this Lady dared to gaze straight into his eyes. He wanted desperately to know what she was thinking. So he asked her.

"What are you looking for when you look at me that way?"

Now she blushed and turned away. "Have I been staring? I am sorry. Father always taught me to look a person in the eye when he is speaking."

"Is that the only reason you gaze at me?"

Lothiriel raised her eyebrows ever so slightly, as if to question his impertinence. But after a short silence, she offered her explanation. "You also remind me of someone I once knew. You look so much like him. It would almost be uncanny if your hair were black."

"And did you like this person whom I remind you of?" pressed Éomer, trying to sound light. He was afraid that he did not quite succeed, for the Princess seemed flustered by his question.

"Yes," she replied at length, but when her face grew sad Éomer decided it was best to leave the subject alone. A long silence then passed between them as Éomer tried to think of something to say.

"This is a good feast," he said at last.

Lothiriel nodded, but offered nothing for a long while. She too was at a loss for what to say.

"Do you like the minstrel's song, my lord?" she asked.

Éomer hadn't even realized anyone was singing, but he said yes anyway. He looked around the room, trying to find the bard so he could add his own comment about his singing, but he could not locate him anywhere. When he returned his eyes to the Princess he found her smiling at him. She was staring at him again, unashamed.

"You can't find the minstrel, can you?" she said with great amusement. It was a statement, not a question.

"No, I am afraid I cannot," he said, bristling a little in his embarrassment at having been caught in a lie.

"That is because there is no minstrel," she said.

Éomer was confused. If there was no minstrel, why had she asked him whether or not he liked the song? As he pondered this, he found she was laughing at him, and he saw that she was having a little joke at his expense.

"Why ask me such a thing then?"

"We couldn't seem to find anything else to talk about," she asked.

Éomer did not know what to make of her bluntness. Was she being rude or funny? Who said silly things like that? He allowed the silence to grow around them once more, until it became too uncomfortable to bear. However, rather than wish to leave her sideÉomer found himself wanting to say something interesting. Something substantial. He fumbled around for an idea, but before he could succeed, Lothiriel interrupted him.

"You must forgive me, Lord Éomer," she said abruptly. "I think I must return to my brothers now."

Éomer was disappointed that he would not have the chance to prove himself as a conversationalist. "I hope I did not bore you too much," he said.

"Oh no, my lord. But we have been talking for quite a long time, and I have kept you from your sister long enough. In fact, I don't even see her here anymore."

Éomer was taken aback when he saw that she was right. Together they scanned the length of the room, although it was a futile gesture. Both knew already that Éowyn was absent. Éomer wondered where she had gone, for everyone he knew was still in the room. He hoped she was not walking alone again, for she had done that many times in Meduseld and always when she was most sorrowful.

But he did not wish to leave Lothiriel. He felt that if he left, he would have wrecked his chances of…

Of what? he dared himself to continue. Why, he would have wrecked his chances of sweeping the girl off her feet.

But instead of saying anything witty, he said, "You are right, my lady. I should go find her."

She did him a courtesy and Éomer looked for the closest exit, but then an idea hit him.

"Before you go, my Lady, may I ask if I might have the pleasure of walking with you tomorrow morning after breakfast? I will have thought of something to say by then and shall then dazzle you with my wit."

Lothiriel smiled, though there had been a slight trace of doubt beforehand, which Éomer had chosen to ignore. "Yes, of course, Lord Éomer."

"Good," he proclaimed, unable to hide his mirth. "Until tomorrow then."

At last he let her go, but he watched her return to her family. He had never courted a woman before in quite this way. In fact, he had never considered what he was now considering and was amazed to discover how easily the idea had slipped into his mind.

Marriage. And he entertained the idea now not for politics or the getting of an heir, but as a union between a man and a woman who loved each other. He felt that for him such a union could be possible only with this woman, and he hoped against hope that she might feel the same for him. He couldn't find the words to speak to her, and yet he felt that he had so much to say. If only he could find his voice! He had known her only a day, but already he felt certain.

When Imrahil noticed him staring at his daughterÉomer turned to the exit in order to look for Éowyn. He was nearly out when he stumbled over Merry and Pippin, hoisting their ale mugs in the air. He couldn't tell if they were drunk or if this was their normal drinking behavior.

"_Westu_ Éomer King _hal_!" cried Merry in a terrible Rohirric accent. He shoved his mug into his lord's hands, and Éomer decided they were drunk. Nevertheless, he politely took the mug and drank from it, although if they were doing this properly, it would have been a cup or goblet.

"And where are you off to, my King?"

"To find the Lady Éowyn, my sister, for I do not see her within."

Here Merry and Pippin exchanged a knowing glance that Éomer did not quite understand. What he did know was that Merry began pushing him backwards into the room.

"We saw her out in the gardens of the Houses of Healing," said Pippin to enthusiastically. "She's with Fa…" Merry then stomped on Pippin's foot, but Éomer decided this was an accident due to Merry's inebriated state. He laughed a little, but then tried to press on only to be stopped once again. All right, he thought. I'll play your little game.

"She's with Fa?" repeated Éomer with a hearty chuckle. "Fa who? I had better go see who this 'Fa' is."

Merry glared at Pippin for some inexplicable reason. Then he said, "being with Fa is the Gondorric expression for going to bed! She went to bed. I heard her complaining about drinking too much ale. This Gondorric stuff has a mighty kick."

Éomer crossed his arms sternly and sighed. "What are you hiding from me?"

Pippin, being far drunker than his companion, could simply not restrain himself. "She's in the gardens with Faramir!" he shouted, only it came out, "Swes in the gurdens wid Furmir."

"Pippin!" exclaimed Merry in exasperation.

Éomer searched his memory, trying to remember who "Furmir" was.

Furmir…Furmir…Faramir? "The Steward?" he questioned. He suddenly recalled his sister's delight upon accepting the asphodel. He remembered her insistence that she stay in the city rather than join him at Cormallen. Éomer felt both hurt by his sister's secrecy and relieved that the source of her happiness was not Aragorn. He knelt lower in order to face the hobbits more equally. "Did Éowyn tell you to keep me from searching for her?"

Merry smiled weakly. "Yes, my Lord."

"Ah. Well, then I suppose I will stay in the Great Hall." He stood up again, feeling oddly glum. "She is only in the _gardens_, correct?"

"Oh yes, my Lord!" exclaimed Pippin. "Faramir is the most honorable of men, and he would never compromise her in any way."

Éomer turned a little red since this was not exactly what he had meant. He had only meant that he hoped they were not riding around on the outskirts of the city in the dark or something of that nature. He didn't want to think what else his baby sister might be doing with this man he didn't know. "By your leave, master hobbits," he said, turning away quickly. As he left, he heard Merry stomp on Pippin's foot again and say, "Now you've done it, Pip. He's angry with us!"

In truth Éomer was not angry with the hobbits, but he was confused by his sister's silence on such an important topic and also by the whirlwind of hopes and desires he felt for Imrahil's young daughter. He went back the party, thinking he might speak to Aragorn or Gimli, but was unable to concentrate on anything they said.

"You're a dull drinking partner tonight, Éomer King" mocked the dwarf later on as he pointed to Éomer's full mug.

"Yes yes" replied Éomer with a dismissive wave, his eyes still hunting for Lothiriel across the room. Éowyn was forgotten. So was Éomer, for Gimli turned his back on him and went to talk to his friend the elf, who might prove more talkative.


	3. Chapter III

* * *

Chapter III

* * *

In the morning Lothiriel took her breakfast in her chambers, for she was anxious to delay her meeting with King Éomer for as long as she could. She ate slowly, pretending to savor each bite. It wasn't bad fare, but she chewed it past the point where it lost its flavor. She told the maid to braid her hair twice, saying that the first try had resulted in an uneven look. And she spent far more time than was necessary in selecting a gown.

It was not because Éomer repulsed her that she delayed her exit, nor that the idea of his suit was undesirable. She had known within the first moment of meeting him that he would be her husband. All the pieces fit. He was handsome and courageous. Father treated like a son. Her brothers admired him. They had much in common, which was as good a base as any for a strong marriage.

She did not love him; and yet, she felt that learning to love him was not impossible. But to say that she had stumbled upon her fate as if she were the heroine of some epic poem would have been wrong. There had been something intriguing in his eyes when she had first seen him—a certain weight and sadness that had made her take notice. It had seemed as if he had only seen how great his troubles were in the midst of his triumph.

He seemed so stiff and serious when she spoke to him. Not the kind of seriousness that suggested he did not know how to laugh, but the kind that meant he could not laugh among strangers. She had gotten one smile out of him last night at least, and she told herself that if she extracted two more this morning then he would be good enough to marry.

Who else would be as suitable?

Lothiriel's maidservants bound her hair with silver circlets that were so heavy that they pulled at her scalp. She wished she were in Dol Amroth again, walking along the beach with her hair blowing free in the ocean breeze as the foam licked at her heels. She stretched her arms outward in order that her maids could bind the thick folds of her gown to her upper arms; yet as she did so, her eyes closed and she brought to mind the salty air of the shore, the feel of the waves tickling her feet.

A knock on the door brought her back to Minas Tirith. The giggling maids scattered, allowing their mistress to open it herself. Lothiriel did not hurry, knowing that it was Éomer. She walked to the door as if she were going to fetch a book off the shelf; but when she came within one foot of the door, Lothiriel realized she did not feel so casual.

What should I do if there is nothing to say? she thought. What should I do if he tries to kiss me? Her heart beat faster as she thought of it, but it was more from fear than desire. And yet…would it be so bad? She opened the door.

Simultaneous relief and disappointment greeted her instead, for it was not Éomer, but Erchirion who stood outside. Her brother looked troubled and was biting his lip. He was remarkably well attired, which was out of character.

"Have you seen Faramir?" he asked without offering a proper greeting.

"No," she said, wondering at the ridiculousness of his question. How would she have seen Faramir so early in the morning? "I have not left these chambers yet, and Faramir is certainly not within."

"Oh," answered Erchirion, his disappointment evident. "He is not in his chambers."

"Have you tried the Great Hall?"

"Yes. He is not there either." He said nothing more and also showed no sign of wanting to enter the room. Erchirion merely stood outside the threshold, staring at his feet. Lothiriel was torn between shutting the door in his face and embracing him. He looked so broken.

"You seem remarkably upset by our cousin's absence."

"Well, no," he said. "I was actually looking for the Lady Éowyn."

"What has she to do with Faramir?" laughed Lothiriel.

Erchirion shrugged and walked away without giving her an answer. She leaned against the lintel, watching him leave. A sigh escaped her as she thought of her silly older brother—always in and out of love. He could start an affair in a second and end it twice as quickly. It seemed they were not truly related.

She continued to lean against the lintel, even after the sound of his footsteps had died away. Yet before she could retire inside, they were replaced by softer ones coming from her left. She turned to find Éomer King approaching.

It was the first time she had ever seen him without armor, for he wore a green tunic of Rohirric fashion, although over it he wore a velvet doublet of Gondorric make. His golden hair was loose and spilled over his shoulders. He was completely relaxed and unlike the stern warrior with whom she had spoken earlier.

He was grinning uncontrollably as he bowed in greeting. "My lady," he said.

"My lord," she curtsied.

"I was about to say something witty, but your beauty has stricken it from my mind," he said, and as he spoke, he drew from behind his back a handful of blue flowers, newly blossomed.

"Did you spend all night practicing this greeting?" she asked, wincing as she realized how ungrateful her comment was. To make up for it, she graciously took his flowers and smelled them with as much appreciation as she could muster.

But to her surprise Éomer laughed at her remark and at his own clumsiness as a wooer. "No, I spent only five seconds thinking of it, which is why it was so poor."

He has a nice smile, she thought.

They walked down to the sixth circle of the city, stopping every now and then so that Lothiriel could recount some tale of her childhood. She had visited seldom, and yet every step extracted some forgotten memory. The experience was invigorating. Lothiriel almost felt like the same innocent girl she had been before the war.

"There was where I fell when I was trying to run away from the servants," she pointed to a little culvert to the right of the street. "I told you I was a terror."

Éomer laughed, examining the age-worn depression in the carven stone as if it were the key to Lothiriel's whole history. She was amused to see his genuine interest over such a small thing. Perhaps she might point out a stone and he would look at it with the same fervor merely because she had shown it to him. She was flattered by her simple power over him.

"Why were you running?" he asked.

"They were trying to braid my hair, but my maidservant pulled too hard," she smiled. "Faramir found me cradling my ankle. He was the only one who could coax me back into the palace. He promised to take me to the stables and let me ride his horse if I came back. I remember being so happy, for Faramir would never let anyone touch the horse except for his brother. I think Boromir had gifted him with it, and it was his most loved possession in all the world for a goodly length of time."

Lothiriel wondered whether Éomer would choose to ask her about Faramir, Boromir or horses next. She thought it would be horses, but he surprised her.

"What would you call your most treasured possession in all the world?" he asked, skipping past all the mundane questions he could have selected.

"It must be a possession and not a person?"

"Aye," he said.

Her mind flitted to the lock of dark hair tied up in her jewel box back in Dol Amroth, but she knew she could not use _it_ to answer Éomer's question. And anyway, she was not sure that it was indeed her most treasured possession. She had only thought of it first.

"My jewel box," she answered instead, and then wished she hadn't. He would think she coveted jewels like Fëanor.

"No it's not," he surprised her again.

"No it's not what?" she said, wondering why he would contradict her.

"You thought of something before that, but you didn't say it. Come now, tell me truthfully."

Lothiriel blushed, wondering why she could not think of something besides the lock of hair, and diverted the question to him. "What is _your_ most treasured possession?"

"My sword," he replied without thinking. The confidence of his answer impressed her. "It was my father's. Now tell me what is making you blush so."

Lothiriel blushed even redder, and wished the game would end. "You are making me blush, my lord."

Éomer smiled. "All right, I did not mean to push."

Lothiriel did not mind. She simply didn't want to talk about the man who had given her that lock of hair. When she looked upÉomer was admiring her again. She did not feel embarrassed by his gaze, only unnerved that she could not read what his eyes were saying. She hoped she had not hurt him by refusing to answer his question.

"I was thinking of a gift that a friend had given me. It was a lock of hair."

"Was your friend going far away that she had to give you a token to remember her by?"

Lothiriel noticed that Éomer had assumed her friend was a woman. This mistake she was determined not to correct. "Yes."

She did not look at him when she spoke, afraid he would catch her lie as he had before. When they continued their stroll, she dared to look up again, and found that the morning sunlight had wreathed his features in a crown of gold. The sight warmed her heart, and she made the impulsive gesture of placing her hand in his.

A contented smile appeared over his face as he gently pressed his palm into hers. Then hand in hand they walked down the upper circles of the city before returning again to the palace.

* * *

Erchirion found Faramir in conference with the King by pure accident and long after he had stopped searching. He had saddled his horse, intending to go for a ride, and saw them standing outside the shattered gate of the second circle. Although their enemies had not passed this far into the city, a great missile from one of the catapults had flown into the city and collided with the gate. The metal and wood had crumpled, and it was dented beyond repair. The King and Steward were in deep discussion and had not noticed him, even when the sentries snapped to attention as he rode by. As their conversation seemed serious, Erchirion considered just continuing on without greeting them, but felt that he ought to say hello. He hopped off his horse and approached.

Elessar noticed him first. "Hail, Son of Imrahil! Well met on a good morn."

Faramir presented him with a less formal salutation and a smile.

"We have been up since sunrise pouring over what must be done for the city," explained the Steward. "The few days of leisure are over for me, though I am not displeased."

"But they are not ended for me," said Erchirion with a grin. "Even now I was going for a ride over the field, but you have made me feel sorry, and so perhaps I will join your conference."

Faramir shook his head. "I will give you another task. The Lady of Rohan is upon the fields as we speak, doing what you were about to; and she is lonely perhaps. You might ride down and keep her company. Tell her you are my cousin, and she will be the happier for the meeting."

Elessar nodded his assent, "I fear that the fields she walks upon hold no happy memories for her. I would not have her wander there alone."

Erchirion felt uncomfortable all of the sudden, hearing the two men speak of Lady Éowyn; and since he had been anxious to speak to her ever since their chance meeting the other day, he quickly excused himself and mounted his horse again.

When he left the gate, he looked out over the rich expanse of grassland. The concourse was cluttered with lightly-armored soldiers driving west with wagons of soil or east with carts of jetsam. The soil was meant to fill the hideous trenches by the walls; the garbage would be driven to the riverbank to be burnt, and the ashes flung into the swift current that would carry it to the sea.

To his disappointment, Éowyn was nowhere to be found among the tumult, but Erchirion thought perhaps that was best. He strongly suspected there was something between her and his cousin, and he had heard rumors also. He did not want to interfere where he was not welcome. After all, his interest had been nothing more than a passing fancy. She was very beautiful, and he had heard much of her valor. It would have been a privilege to speak with her, but he would entertain no thoughts beyond this. He supposed he would be able to talk more at her wedding, whenever that may be.

Ah, that he had been wounded at the Pelennor instead of Faramir! Perhaps he would have met her first and then he might be riding with her even now upon the plains.

He urged his horse forward and trotted down the road. Soldiers passing him by noticed his fine clothes and the circlet upon his head and saluted him. Civilians on foot navigated through the lines, weaving back and forth as they hastened to their destinations. He had never in all his visits to the White City seen more cheerful faces. Nor had he ever seen his fellow men of Gondor walking the road east without fear. The war was over!

While he was pondering these happy things, he spotted Éowyn, walking her horse upon the field. She presented a solitary figure, clad in a simple gown of white and over it a mantle of the deepest blue. Her hand clutched the reins loosely, letting them fall slack, as she looked this way and that upon the grass below her feet. She paused a little in her steps as she came across a great mound of earth where some grave had been made. There she stooped low and with reverence ran her hand over the earth. Erchirion dared to come a little closer, thinking to announce his presence. But then the lady stood, and walked nearer to what he saw was a great barren spot of land. When she stopped, she shuddered and clutched her arm as if in pain. Erchirion was fascinated to watch her.

The Lady studied the ground for one long moment, and he wondered if she was reliving the battle or bidding farewell to its horror. He himself had often tried to confront the terrifying images of his memory, but they never vanished. Would they vanish for her? He recalled the tumult of the Pelennor, how even the dust rising from the plain had been soaked crimson, and whenever he inhaled, he could taste the metallic tang of blood upon the wind.

Orcs with pikes had wrenched his guardsmen from his horse and hewed his head from his shoulders. But they had missed in the first stroke, and those horrible blades hacked and hacked . . . No man could reach him to save him in time. Arrows pelted the sortie from all sides; he had concentrated all his strength in trying to keep his shield raised.

Erchirion trembled to recall the unidentifiable bits of flesh that led to the abandoned corpse. What remained of the arms were held up to ward off the slaughter. Erchirion's knights had dragged it back along with Faramir, but the guard's head they left on the field, for it was too ghastly to look upon. No one had been able to tell who he was until they called out the names of the survivors and he failed to answer . . .

_Stop it_, he shook himself. You came to meet the Lady of Rohan, not to dwell upon such things. Yet he did not go forth to make his presence known. He merely stared at the ground, allowing his reins to fall slack. His horse bent its head to nibble on the grass, but after a few bites it raised its head as if the flavor had not appealed to him. Perhaps the taste of battle lingered there as well.

When Erchirion finally moved forward, he found that he was too late to bid good morning to the White Lady. Éowyn had swung up on her horse's back in the swift and graceful manner of her people and was galloping back to the gate. He followed her with his eyes, until she disappeared beyond the barriers.

He rode to the place where she had stood, and then Erchiron realized its significance. She had been standing over the charred remains of the pyre they had built for the Nazgûl's steed. He recalled the stench that had risen from the Fell Beast's carcass and with a shudder, he clucked to his horse with his tongue and moved on.

He rode to the Rammas Echor, the ruined wall of the Pelennor, observing that a great deal of wreckage had been removed since his arrival. The workers were quick on their feet, anxious to cleanse their land of Sauron's filth. But there was still a good deal of armor, banners, broken weapons strewn over the field. He saw among the wreckage a winged helmet that could have been the helm of one of his countrymen. Perhaps it had been that very same young guardman's.

The memory found him again and Erchirion decided it was enough. He could not remain alone upon this field one moment longer. Erchirion's eyes were haunted when at last he led his horse back into the city, and he was so distracted that he did not notice the young man running after him.

* * *

When Éomer and Lothiriel returned to the palace, it was past noon. They parted ways reluctantly, and Éomer went in the direction of his quarters. On the way he passed the hall in which Théoden King had been laid. It was a smaller chamber than the Great Hall, intended for receiving more important persons and for small councils. It was less grand, but perhaps it was even more ornate. The walls were adorned with golden leaf, and every torch burnt in a holder of polished bronze. Only the view from the open window was barren, for that way was Osgiliath, which was in ruins. Of late, this room had become the resting place of his Uncle, for the Great Hall was needed for business, and yet the Tombs of the Rath Dínen were not yet fit for use.

Two guards stood as sentinels by the door, one of Rohan and the other of the White Tower, but they did not bother Éomer. He stepped inside on a whim. The old wooden floor creaked as he did so.

He did not like the smell, which smelled of dust and archaic tapestries withering under the hot southern sun. He smelled age and obsoleteness. Moreover, as soon as he entered and looked upon the body of the King wrapped in a cloak of Gondor, he felt guilty. Éomer had been so taken with Lothiriel that he had not thought of his own kingdom waiting in the North. He had sent riders to Edoras several days ago, but none to anywhere else. Perhaps they were still waiting for the stroke of doom as he tarried in the South; and while he feasted, perhaps they were starving.

He would take council with Éowyn, and set a date for his departure. But they could not bring Théoden King with them and return with any speed. He would remain in the city, and the men of Gondor would embalm him according to their customs.

Perhaps he would stay for one more week. Or two. He was unwilling to leave Imrahil's daughter so soon and without having spoken his mind. He did not wish to be lonely in Edoras, and some irrational hope made him unwilling to return to Mark without a Queen. He did realize that Éowyn would not always be with him, for she would marry. He would choose someone for her if she found no one else; but perhaps she had found love already. He hoped she was not chasing after some dream again. It had not occurred to him last night, but he had thought of it this morning: that perhaps she had not told him of Lord Faramir because there was nothing to tell. Perhaps she would always love where there was no hope, hating her cage white too afraid to leave it. Or perhaps they had not been together at all, and the hobbits were simply gossiping.

Ah, well; it was not yet his affair if she had said nothing about it. He had come here to see his Uncle, and should do so without allowing his mind to be distracted.

Éomer looked again at the King's body under the cloth, and the once-strong hands holding his sword over his breast. He felt that he ought to think some great thought or remember his uncle for his mighty deeds; but all he saw was a face that looked like someone he used to love. There was no life in the corpse, and it was not Théoden King. He wanted to mourn, but it was beyond him; and perhaps that was saddest of all.

With a sigh, he backed away from the dias and left the hall in search of his sister.


	4. Chapter IV

Author's Notes: Thanks to all my reviewers. I'm sorry it took me a month to update, especially since the bulk of this was sitting on my hard drive all that time. I've been very busy with real life & real work, etc.

If it takes me this long again, go to fanfiction. Join up and check out the fanfiction topic on the forum. There's a neat little fanfic challenge exchange that's going on right now, and it needs some more authors.

* * *

Chapter III

* * *

Éowyn returned to the seventh circle of the city without seeking Faramir, for she knew he was with Aragorn, and she would rather avoid that encounter if she could. Aragorn would be a reminder of her recent brush with darkness; and after riding over the Pelennor, she did not feel equal to meeting him. Her limbs were sore now and her head felt light; and she felt dizzy like a convalescent who has tried to walk too soon. Even the slight exertion needed to climb the broad steps to the Hall of the King made her muscles ache. At the top of the wide stone steps she took a deep breath and supported herself by placing one of her hands upon one of the grand columns of the narrow portico that jutted out from the western wing of the palace. There were fewer guards here than at the Great Door to the hall, and she was glad of it. She did not wish anyone to see her falter.

As Éowyn rested there while catching her breath, she cursed herself for her foolishness. She had gone down to the Pelennor to confront her fears, curious as to whether they had dissipated now that she was so happy. Ah, but they were still within her. How she had trembled before that dreadful place where she had faced the Witch King! It has been as if the fetid stench of his robes still lingered, and the trials of that day were playing out once more.

She pressed her forehead against the pillar, leaning against the polished stone with eyes closed. The loneliness that she had forgotten that day on the walls was remembered, and all the joys of the past few days seemed evaporated like the dew of yestermorn. When would Faramir be done with his duties? She needed him to comfort her.

For some time she remained outside, mustering her strength so she could return indoors. The feeling was odd, for after she had caught her breath and sat down for several minutes, she no longer felt physically weak. Her muscles ceased to hurt, and whatever spell had come over her on the field left her, and she felt strong again. Even so, it was some time before she believed the darkness in her mind had dissipated, and she remained where she was for the better part of an hour.

At last Éowyn entered the palace, hoping she might see Faramir passing by on some errand. He had warned her that he would be busy for a long time now and that perhaps she would spend many lonely days in the Citadel when they were wed. Perhaps it would continue until their home in Emyn Arnen was finished and they went where no one could impose upon him with the ease presented by life in Minas Tirith. Yet Éowyn had listened with a lover's heart, heedless and determined past the point of reason. She had not believed any day as Faramir's wife could be a lonely one.

However, they were not married yet, and even now she felt the pangs of her solitude. But maybe tomorrow or the day after Faramir would take her to their future home at Emyn Arnen. He had promised to do so, despite his need to attend to the full docket of concerns that he had been setting aside since the King's return.

_This is silly_, she shook herself. _I cannot always be with Faramir, for he is a Steward and a Prince; and I have as of yet no part of his labor. There are things enough to do in this, my future home, and I shall do them._

With this in mind, Éowyn felt a great deal better—although not as well as she had felt before her sojourn on the Pelennor. Yet she seemed to shake off the last of her strange malaise as she conjured up ideas of what she could do.

She supposed she might go to the library.

The night before, Faramir had taken her to the library in the House of the Stewards. He had wanted to show her Glorfindel's prophecy about the Witch King, but he couldn't remember which book it was in exactly. For hours they rummaged through half a dozen books of Númenorian lore until they found it. They had fallen asleep together on a giant cushioned armchair where they remained until dawn woke them. Faramir's legs had been so sore that he needed fifteen minutes before he could walk again, but Éowyn had waited for him without thought to who might have noticed her absence in her chambers.

How funny he had been, pretending that he could not walk just so he could lean up against her. No one else knew the humorous side of Lord Faramir. Only her alone, and she liked it that way.

But she did not really want to go to the library, for that might remind her of the prophecy, and that would remind her of the Witch King.

_Stop your fretting_, she demanded of herself.

Instead, she traveled through the main portion of the palace, finally removing her riding gloves (a gift from Merry) while humming the Lay of Leithien, which she had learned from a serving maid in the Houses of Healing. Not being a student of Elvish, she had difficulty with the lyrics, but as her mood grew lighter and lighter, she began to make up her own. Sometimes she repeated the lyrics she knew until her rendition became an embarrassing conglomeration of nonsense words and verses about horses and apples and anything she could find that rhymed. None of the servants paid heed to her as they hastened through the hallways on some errand or another, nor did she heed them. The Pelennor was forgotten.

The echo of her footsteps on the floor pleased her to no end. Éowyn had never heard an echo like that in her own halls, which were constructed mainly from timber. The sound was so fascinating that she made her steps heavier just to hear them reverberate through the high corridor. What ingenuity of mind had the Men of Gondor possessed that they could build such a wonder? Did Faramir notice it still or had he grown accustomed to it? She would ask him next she saw him, even if he might think it was an odd question.

How would he like Meduseld when he came there? Would he find it quaint with its one Hall? They had not separate wings for their guests, but placed them all on cots in one room. Would he be offended by the smell of the stables that sometimes emanated towards the Hall on a particularly strong wind? Would he think their servants too forward and her duties at the Hall too menial for a Princess? She thought how elegant he would look in his finery in comparison to the rough timbers of her home.

There, lost in her thoughts, she drew near the chamber where her uncle lay, but not for the purpose of seeing him; and she would have passed it by altogether had she not seen her brother enter in. The heavy doors were open so any who wished to might come to see the King of Rohan lying in state, but most had come before or had not come at all. The people were in the mood to celebrate, and did not wish to be reminded of the dead.

Éomer had been no exception, but it seemed that he was ending his neglect now. It was always that way with him. She remembered that he had not truly mourned their father until they had spent a year under her Uncle's roof. He had not really mourned Théodred at all. Come to think of it, neither had she. And her Uncle . . . In her happiness at finding Faramir, she had tried not to think of him at all.

Her good mood sank as she paused by the doorway to the chamber, wanting to say something, but wondering whether she ought to interrupt so private a moment. When she tried to cross the threshold, she felt her sword arm grow cold and her spirit quavered. No, she would not look upon her Uncle's body today.

In the end, she remained outside to observe, but kept silent. She watched her brother circle the dias, examining the fine cloth and then the body itself. His face bore no expression, but his posture was sad.

Éowyn decided to wait outside for him, but her brother was in the room for a long time and her feet began to hurt from standing in one place on the cold stone. She almost left when she heard the floorboards within creak, indicating that he was exiting. When at last he emerged, he wore a thoughtful look on his brow, quiet and troubled. He would not have seen her if she had not stopped him; but when he did notice her, a wide grin appeared and all concerns vanished.

"I was just going to look for you," he told her.

"I wasn't looking for you, but I am glad to see you nonetheless," she answered.

He placed an arm around her and kissed the top of her head. Éowyn was moved by his rare display of affection. She wrapped one arm around his back and together they walked to the window at the far end of the narthex.

"You were riding, I see," he said, pointing to her gloves. She thought of her ride earlier with distaste.

"Yes, I ventured outside the city for a bit. And you? I have not seen you since yesterday morn."

"Aaah," he replied. "Well, I left early to walk around the upper circles." He looked as if he wanted to say more, but something was preventing him. He stopped and turned to her.

Éowyn glanced at him with eyebrows raised, but still he offered nothing further. Nor did she ask if he had seen Faramir, though the question had jumped to the forefront of her thoughts. They were bound in a conspiracy of silence.

It occurred to her then that it might be an opportune moment to tell him about Faramir. She pondered how best to say it, wondering whether he would believe her or not, wondering if he had not already heard rumors. But before she managed to say anything, he broke the silence to ask her some mundane question about the weather.

She answered politely, but with little enthusiasm; for she felt her chance had been lost and they were already talking about other things. A sigh must have escaped her lips, for suddenly her brother was regarding her with more than a little curiosity.

"You've stopped smiling," commented Éomer with some dismay. "And I was just getting accustomed to it. I should like to see it again."

"Don't tease me," she said, without being curt. "I have had a difficult morning." And she tried to think of a good way to bring the conversation around to a comfortable opening for her announcement. But again he prevented her.

"Did you not sleep well?" he asked her, suddenly much more serious. He took hold of her arms as if to examine her eyes and started when he touched her shield arm, which had grown ice cold. Before she had time for an explanation he was asking, "Are you ill again?"

"No, I am just a little tired," she pulled away from him, feeling aggravated that he would not simply be quiet. But for his benefit, she lifted her arm and flexed the muscles in her hand in order to show that the arm was fine. "I went down to the Pelennor earlier, and it was too soon. I will be fine."

Éomer sighed. "It is this city, I suppose. We have stayed here long enough. This place is troubling you, I fear, and we should leave it."

Éowyn's head shot up in surprise. "No!" she cried, without bothering to check the vehemence of her response. Her eyes were wide and her hand had come up to clutch his forearm, as if such a gesture could stay his pronouncement. Éomer scrutinized her closely, and she became aware of her strange demeanor. "I only mean that it is not necessary to leave on my account," she stammered.

"But for me it _is_ necessary. I must return to Rohan soon," he said with a shrug. "Otherwise our people will think I have forsaken them."

Here was her opening, and it had come none too soon. She took a deep breath and blurted it out: "Éomer, I do not wish to leave Minas Tirith."

She swore that his face went ashen. He looked at her, not with anger, but in such a way as to suggest he did not know her. "Do not wish to leave?" he repeated, letting his mouth fall open when he finished. He gaped at her. "Are you unable to ride?"

Éomer loved Rohan, she recalled. He _would_ conclude that the only reason she did not wish to return was illness. Immediately she moved to dispel his fears.

"I am not ill, Éomer . . . "

"Then why would you not return?" he said.

"I do wish to return, but not so soon. And not forevermore. Something in this city keeps me here . . . _someone_."

Éomer nodded, but showed no real sign of understanding. "Surely you can return home for a little while, and then you can return to Minas Tirith."

Éowyn felt the chill of a winter that had long since passed. Her arm felt like ice, and her face like fire. Rash words tumbled from her lips, borne of exhaustion and irritation at being thwarted. "I have no wish to go home, brother."

Éomer stood up to his full height, dwarfing her as if to intimidate her. It did not work, and she met his gaze head on. She expected him to yell at her, to lecture her. Instead, he grasped her arms gently with his hands and then lowered himself to her own level.

"You must come home, Éowyn. It is not a command I give you, but a plea. I need your aid, for I cannot fulfill my duties to our people alone, nor do I wish to face the emptiness of Meduseld without you," he said.

"I will not make you wait upon me hand and foot; nor shall I let you sink into the darkness," he continued, with such compassion that she could not withstand it and tried to look away. "A few months more is all I ask, so that we may bury our Uncle and set our lands aright. Then I will send you off to this city to return with twenty times more joy than when you first left it. And your dowry will be all the horses in my stables and all the gold in my vault if you wish it. My guard shall be your escort, and they will ride forth bearing standards of purest white for the bride, for peace . . . and for the Stewards of the White City."

Éowyn uttered a noise of shock when he finished, for she had not told him that it would be the Steward she loved. "You knew? And you knew he was Faramir?"

"I guessed," he said. "Has he asked for your hand, or have you merely anticipated it?"

"He has asked," she replied.

"Then he shall have it, for I give you my blessing. But in exchange, I only ask two things."

Éowyn smiled up at Éomer. "Yes?"

"First, that you love him."

She laughed at the gravity in his voice. It seemed ludicrous for anyone to ask her whether or not she loved Faramir. Of course she loved him! Still, When Éomer continued to stare at her while waiting for her answer, she supplied the necessary affirmative. He nodded and continued.

"Second, that you come home to Rohan."

Éowyn's heart sank. "Not without him," she whispered, without understanding her sudden fear of her homeland. All she knew was that Faramir would make it better.

Éomer did not seem to share her sentiment, for he was frowning. "Were the days so unhappy there?"

Éowyn said nothing for a while as she considered how best to answer. "Often they were."

He sighed. "But when we return, we shall make it a place of light and mirth once more; and then you shall see how silly it is to forsake the memory of your homeland."

"But you forget, Éomer," she replied, "I have not agreed to go unless Lord Faramir comes with me."

Éomer studied her for a moment longer, allowing full reign to his confusion. He backed away from his sister and scratched his head. "I wonder what sort of man this Faramir is to have turned my courageous sister into a helpless, quivering thing who cannot survive without her man."

He said it lightly, as if to tease her, but Éowyn's anger was kindled at his words. Her eyes lit up. "I am hardly helpless and _quivering_," she snapped, causing Éomer to groan in dismay. "But I have earned my peace, and I intend to keep it here, where I am happy. And if I must go forth from this most blessed of cities, then I see not why I should be parted from the person who has most contributed to my salvation."

"There's my defiant girl!" laughed Éomer King. "I see now Lord Faramir is but a henpecked youth, and has very little say in the matter. Very well, bring him if you can get him to come; but if you cannot, please consider my request. I think you would find home a much more pleasant place than before. I know not from whence this new loathing of it has come, but I am sure the love of the plains still flows somewhere in your blood."

He left her alone in the corridor, fuming at his retreating figure. Then Éowyn emitted a sigh and wrapped her arms about her to ward off the chill that was coming over her once again.

* * *

As Éowyn conversed with her brother in the Great Hall of the seventh circle, a young man clad in the dark blue of Dol Amroth lurked near the Palace entry way. He wore an old mail coat underneath his colors and at his side swung a battered sword in its rotting scabbard. He was a poorer soldier, who looked very much out of place within the Circle of Kings, where even the guardsmen could boast of a high lineage. No one paid him any attention, figuring him to be a messenger on some errand from the lower circles. After all, he held in his hand a wooden rod wrapped with paper, presumably a letter of some sort.

He stood like a sentinel at the main door of the Palace, stoic yet sad. No one asked him what his business was, nor did he ask for anyone to help him. He seemed content to stand all day. Fortunately, he did not have to.

Perhaps two hours after he arrived in the seventh level, a young maidservant of the Royal House of Dol Amroth noticed his tunic and drew closer to see whether or not she recognized him. From a distance he had seemed like one she had known before…

The maid, Ithilas, found herself squinting at the stranger, even though he might think she was rude to stare. Her hands clasped over her mouth as she stifled a cry. "Celedhon?" she inquired, coming nearer.

The man's head snapped up in a reflex. It was he. "Why, I have not seen you in almost a year!" she exclaimed.

He bowed formally, and presented her with a scroll. "This is for your Lady," he said. Ithilas took it, her eyes not leaving those of her old friend. She saw that he was troubled by his errand and was uncomfortable in her presence.

"What is it?" she asked, examining the scroll.

"It is from Tirion," he said. "I hope the Lady will read this one at least."

"I cannot receive it," answer Ithilas with regret. "She will be wroth if I disobey her command."

Celedhon squared his jaw and swallowed as he dared to approach. Then, he seized Ithilas's hand and pressed the scroll into it. "It was his dying wish," he begged her. "Please?"


	5. Chapter V

Author's Notes: This chapter pays tribute to James Joyce's "The Dead." Kudos to anyone who knows where.

I meant to do more with Lothiriel and Erchirion. Not much more, but more than here. But they were always just supposed to represent people who felt from the very beginning didn't need to latch on to anything in order to escape the past.

--

Faramir mulled around his study, reluctant to go back to work now that his noontime respite was ended. The windows faced east; the day's best light had gone, and darkness was overtaking the room. He paced from one end of the long chamber to the other, avoiding the section where sat the oak table piled high with papers and parchment concerning official business. His head ached, and his eyes were burning from squinting at small script, but if he did not hurry, he would need to conduct all his remaining work by torchlight.

It was not the workload that deterred him, but the commission that he now held in his hands. He was about to sign it, delegating to Húrin the responsibility of restoring the Rath Dínen. It should have been attended to before, for there were many great men among the dead, who ought to have been interred in the Tombs until the time came for them to be borne back to their homelands. Hirluin, Forlong and Great Théoden King were only a few who awaited the honor.

By rights, it ought to be his own duty to repair the Silent Street. He had wanted the commission, had wanted the job of righting his father's wrongs; but Elessar had asked him not to take it, and perhaps that was best, for he had no wish to enter the Tombs and look upon the pyre once more.

Faramir had neglected the task before the King's arrival. He had sent a few men to collect his father's remains, and they had come back with the question of what to do with the orb of glass clutched between the blackened hands. _Orb of glass?_ he had questioned. He could remember no such object in his father's possession. He sent a messenger galloping to Cormallen to ask Gandalf what this thing could be.

A reply came, giving not only the identity of the orb, but also the gruesome details of his father's demise. Faramir had not been shocked by it; he remembered the flames and smoke, and what he could not recall for certain he had managed to gather from the prattle of the servants he questioned. They had all been extremely reluctant to say anything, which he guessed was the doing of the Warden of the Houses. He had learned enough to make a good conjecture, but above all, he knew his father's disposition. He had known.

However, the existence of this _Palantír_ was something he had not guessed. He had spent hours in the library, researching its history and discovering that there had been more than one, and that of those several had gone missing. Often now Faramir wondered what Denethor had seen in that cursed piece of Elvish glass. His father's cruelty and despair made sense now to Faramir. Had Denethor seen Sauron's armies marching on Minas Tirith? Boromir's death? Perhaps he had watched Faramir kneeling before Aragorn, surrendering the power that the Stewards had preserved for centuries with their blood and the blood of their sons . . . And so Faramir had immediately ordered the Tombs sealed until the King's return, and his father's bones had been left within. Untouched, dishonored and unmourned.

After his return, Elessar had taken the _Palantír_, which was his by right. Now Denethor's bones were about to be collected and placed in an urn of gold; but when and where they should be interred was a matter no one had tried to resolve. Faramir wondered if he might be able to live out his years without ever knowing the fate of his father's last resting place. He did not want to bother with the details, and did not wish to relieve a past that was so painful. He simply wanted to marry Éowyn and go to Ithilien.

He felt guilty. After all, his father had not always been unkind, but had been a great captain, a decisive leader, and an excellent role model. Before Denethor had married, he had fought side by side with Thorongil, winning reknown as a fighter. If Thorongil had overshadowed his ability, if he had been jealous, it had not taken away from his own merit in the people's eyes. And in Faramir's youth, before the _Palantír_, before Gandalf, his father had loved him as well as Boromir. Recognizing Faramir's aptitude for books, Denethor had given him the best tutors. And to prepare him for the fighting days that were inevitable, Denethor had hired the best swordsmen to be teach his sons. He had given Faramir a fine knife of steel with a handle of ebony after had returned from a hunt with his first stag. It had not been an embrace or a word of kindness, but it was something. Faramir had lived for many years with the memory of that last token of fatherly affection. Those were the days of peace. And then suddenly, almost overnight, his father had ceased to regard him with love. He hadn't understood it then, and now when he knew the cause he could not quite forgive Denethor's weakness.

What funeral could Faramir give for a madman? His people would remember only the last years of his decline, and not remember the years of undaunted courage shown against the Enemy: how Denethor had bent his will, exerted his every resource, sacrificed his sons to the struggle. If he gave the commission to Húrin, he could also ask him to organize a state funeral worthy of Denethor's rank. The Warden had served under his father for many more years than Faramir had lived. He might know best what Denethor deserved. Yet, Faramir could not escape the feeling that as a son, it was his duty; and it would be of the greatest impropriety to begin planning a wedding before the bones of his father had been prepared for his funeral.

* * *

Éomer had not announced the date of his departure yet, but Imrahil had announced his. A series of missives had arrived from Dol Amroth, asking the Prince to speed his return, for there were many matters that required his attention. The Corsairs of Umbar had burnt the harbor and the grain stores in Linhir. Many of the folk of that city had returned from hiding in the countryside only to discover their houses destroyed and their possessions lost. Imrahil had made the announcement that afternoon during an informal council in the courtyard that the royal family and all the Swan Knights would depart to their princedom within less than a fortnight. No matter that Imrahil's heir, Prince Elphir, had ridden to Linhir himself to see to the matter. The Prince was determined on leaving, and neither Aragorn nor Éomer could dissuade him.

_Well_, he thought, and his mind turned quickly to Lothiriel. _What should I do now?_ He had left the King's house with the intention of finding Firefoot and taking him for a ride, but as he descended through the narrow passage that led to the gate, he found the streets of the sixth circle clogged with people, attending the peripheral feasts and celebrations of the lesser nobles of Gondor. Venturing to the edge of the walkway, where the parapet rose above the flat keel of Mindolluin, he looked down upon the winding concourse, and as far as he could see it was crowded with servants and people haggling with the merchants and bakers over the supplies for the evening meal. On each level he saw soldiers going to and from their posts wove their way through the mass. On the fourth level, children played in the streets. Carts bustled over the uneven stonework. He saw an old man near the gate of the fifth level trying to fix a broken axel on his wagon.

Minas Tirith was so vast, so chaotic. Perhaps Imrahil would be happy to escape the clutter of this leviathan of cities. Éomer too felt the call of home as his gaze wandered from the polished city stone to the ragged peaks in the distance, beyond which lay the rolling plains of his homeland. A sudden realization came upon him that he had never seen the Mark when it was not in danger. Not a single day of his life that he could remember had it not been under threat from Sauruman or Mordor. He would go home with his sister and his knights, and he would stand in the hall of his fathers as King of a mighty people, who had passed through the crucible and lived. _Soon_, he thought. _Soon, I will return._ But when his thoughts turned to the many that would not return with him and his long-dead brothers-in-arms who would not greet him in his victory, he began he weep. The tears fell from his eyes, but he did not cover them or wipe them away; for they were his tribute to the brave fallen.

Many minutes passed as Éomer stood by the wall. And when at last he had mastered himself again, he thought again how within a fortnight, Lothiriel would be gone from the city. Then nothing would keep him from his kingdom. _North I will go_, he told himself, _and without a Queen. For I am ill-suited to quick wooing, and lack the charm of a poetic tongue. But I will go to Belfalas when all is righted in Rohan. _But even as he planned, he hoped he would not have to return to Edoras alone. He hoped someone might come with him. How lonely he would be there with only memories for comfort.

He returned to the Palace no worse for wear, feeling relieved by the peace and quiet of the halls. A number of options were left to him. He might find Éowyn again and resume their talk. He would like to tell her that she could stay if she was ready to marry the Steward before he left. Or, he could pay a long overdue visit to Lord Faramir himself and see what the man was like. Or, he could call on Lothiriel.

He didn't even realize that he had chosen the latter option until he arrived at her door. A soft knock yielded the appearance of one of the Lady's maidservants.

"Is your lady within?" he asked.

"No, my lord, she is in the atrium, but she . . . "

He did not hear the rest, for he turned away before she could finish and went directly to the atrium. He had been there once before while wandering through the palace, and it did not take long for him to find it again. Cloistered in the very heart of the palace, it was a small area, perhaps no bigger than a stall or two in a stable. It had formerly been reserved for the Queens and Stewardesses. A small gilded fountain sat in the center, surrounded by black granite slabs serving as a floor that led to a step, running all around to area in a square so as to provide a place to sit.

Éomer found Lothiriel sitting on this step, facing the Eastern side of the fountain. He saw that she too had been crying. Hope sprang in his breast as he saw the tears still drying upon her face when she looked up to greet him. Could she be crying because she did not want to leave him? He remembered how she had taken his hand on the city street and gazed at him with such warmth. Perhaps she loved him too.

He sat down beside her, and took her hands in his without noticing the tiny flicker of fear in her eyes as he did so. When he spoke it was with an earnest delicacy he had never employed before in all his life. Never before had he met someone to whom he wanted to open his soul, but now with her he felt himself to be a different man, capable of fair speech beyond what the heroes of old legends could make. But when he spoke, it was only with the same clumsy words he had always employed. "Lothiriel," said he, "Your father told me that you were leaving the city soon."

The girl before him swallowed, struggling as she sought her voice. Éomer knew that she was trying not to sound as if she had been crying. "Yes," was all she could muster. "That is true."

Éomer could not be silent, though he felt the tremble in her delicate hands. He knew he should stop, but he felt too much. He must say it all before he lost his nerve.

"I have not known you long, but I feel that I have come to care for you deeply."

"Éomer . . . " she whispered, and he could not tell if it was an acknowledgment or a plea for him to stop. He blustered on anyway; there could be no stopping now.

"I would not have spoken so soon; I am a man of few words. But I see that you have been crying, and I cannot help but wonder if it might be because you are leaving . . . " But he trailed off when she pulled her hands from his and moved away. He saw that her dark eyes had gone wide with fear or excitement. Éomer, besotted as he was, could do naught but follow her, and the words he knew he should not say continued to tumble from his lips. "Will you allow me to speak of my affection?"

Lothiriel stood, placing her hand over her face. Her shoulders were shaking. Éomer felt his dreams tumble from their lofty tower as he returned to his right mind. She was not happy at all, and perhaps she was even repulsed. The change confused him. Only yesterday, they had been laughing together and joking.

"Forgive me," he stuttered. "I should not have said anything." He stood, preparing to leave.

"Please," she said, causing him to halt and look at her. He saw that her tears were renewed, and streamed freely down her face. "It is I who am sorry."

Éomer regarded her with some confusion. "For what? It is I who have overstepped my bounds and offended you."

"No, please, don't think that," she said. Her voice seemed wracked with indecision, and then her very posture bespoke confusion. Then, at last, she reached into the folds of her sleeve and withdrew a letter. She handed it to him tentatively, not daring to meet his eyes.

"What I give you concerns something I have told no other besides my maidservant."

Éomer took the note and stared down at it only to find the solution to this mystery incomprehensible. The words were in a different language. "It is in Adûnaic," he said. "I cannot read it."

Lothiriel took it back. "It is a love letter," she told him, and Éomer felt his mind flash with understanding, and he began to feel annoyed that she would show such a thing to him.

"His name was Tirion. He was a childhood friend. We climbed trees together until I was too old to climb trees. Then we played chess and went hunting and talked long hours. But he is dead now, gone these three days. He could not get word to me, and he died alone." Her voice shaking, and Éomer was stunned by the sorrow in her eyes. To think that he could have been foolish enough to mistake it for sadness in leaving him!

She continued, as if determined to expiating her guilt by confessing to him. "I met him when we were young, but he was just a servant. I grew older, and I knew there could be nothing between us. Father would never have approved, or so I told myself. I broke it off before I was sixteen, and recovered swiftly. It was only a childish infatuation, after all. He wrote me letters all the time. More often than not I sent them away, but he always wrote. I accepted a few, and I think this gave him hope. He joined my father's guard a year later so that he might be near me. And when the war came, he was sent away to fight."

She motioned toward the letter in her hands. "He was wounded badly at the Pelennor, but he survived long enough to write this. His friend has been trying to give it to me for weeks."

Her tears flowed anew, dripping onto the page. Gasping at the damage they did to the ink, she began to dap at the page with her white sleeve, leaving black smudges on the cloth. Éomer longed to know what those words said. What sincerity of expression could move a woman to this?

She dabbed at her face with the same sleeve, leaving ink stains on her skin. Impulsively, Éomer drew nearer in order to brush them away, but she would not allow it.

"It is not your fault," he said, not knowing what else he could say.

"Oh no, it is not," she replied. "But Éomer, I cannot marry you. Not now, at least."

He accepted her statement with dignity. She had divulged a great secret out of respect for him, and that was all that he could ask. He could not compete with a dead man.

Éomer bowed formally and left her.

* * *

"Leave within the week?" exclaimed Éowyn as her brother spoke to her in her chambers that evening. "Why?"

"We have responsibilities in Rohan. We must go. Imrahil too is leaving."

"But even he is not leaving so quickly. They will think we are running away from some quarrel." Only Éowyn was not thinking of a quarrel. She was thinking of Faramir's promise to take her to Emyn Arnen and of the gentle touch of his lips and of the way his eyes brightened whenever he saw her.

"Ridiculous! They will think no such thing. Besides, I have already informed Aragorn, and we are to part as brothers. It is all arranged."

Éowyn covered her face to hide her frustration. She did not look up until she felt her brother's hand on her shoulder. Then she found the grave nobility of his countenance staring down upon her. He was so calm, so confident. She didn't have the heart to pull away.

"It is a time of mourning, Éowyn," was all he said.

_What? _She looked to him for some clarification, and he did not disappoint.

"It is not the time to plan weddings and write love songs," he explained. "Do you know, that Lord Faramir's father has not even been buried yet?"

Éowyn's eyes widened. Apparently she had not thought of that before.

"There are still men dying in the infirmary of wounds too deep to heal. The gates of the city have not been repaired. Who knows what it is like in our own realm. Perhaps orcs are still raiding its borders. And Théoden King lies here in the Great Hall, where scant numbers of his people may come to do him honor. We _must_ go back."

She shook her head. "What about Lothiriel?"

Éomer's face darkened. "She mourns for someone also."

Éowyn looked upon his face with tears glistening in her eyes, thinking only of the loneliness awaiting her in Edoras. "_Please_, do not make me leave him."

She hoped he felt terrible watching the despair creep back her heart. She was sure he would, but even so, she knew he would not be swayed.

"You will see him again," Éomer chastised her. "But you cannot always be running from your homeland in pursuit of some man."

Her hand went up to strike him, but she stopped herself before the blow landed. Her brother was King; she could not fight with him as if they were still children. She owed him respect. Furthermore, what he said was true more or less. She had left home because of a man.

Only she had not gone to battle to pursue Aragorn. She had gone to escape Rohan; and she was still running. Why not? There was nothing in Rohan for her any longer.

"Éowyn, I apologize . . . " he stammered.

Unwilling to listen, Éowyn swept out of the room and down the hallway before the words were fully out of his mouth.

Éowyn was so stung by her brother's censure that she did not seek out Faramir to comfort her. Seeing him would only have confirmed Éomer's words, and doing so was out of the question. She was furious with Éomer, although she knew he did not mean to be cruel. Something had happened between him and Lady Lothiriel, and now he was taking it out on her. Or perhaps he really did think that she was only chasing after Faramir in order to escape the shadows of her past.

Perhaps it was so. She had not had a single nightmare since she and Faramir had confessed their love on the walls. But that was not the only reason she stayed. Was it?

Éowyn roamed through the open corridors for hours until night set in and her feet grew tired. She paid a visit to the hobbits, and they were so cheerful that they did not notice her ill-humor. She went to Faramir's study and knocked on his door, but found him not within. Then, too tired to search for him, she retired to her own chambers, avoiding the path that would have led her by the Great Hall. When she was at last in her own room, Éomer was long gone.

It was not late, but she wished to go to bed. The servants loosened the ties of her dress, and helped her remove the many layers she wore. But the longer they worked, the harder it was for her not to cry. Her helpers said nothing, but threw the nightgown over her head and set it in place. She dismissed them quickly.

When they were gone, she lay upon the covers of her bed and buried her head in the pillow. She had spent many nights in Meduseld in the same way, with her head buried in her pillow as she dreaded the days to come: full of waiting on her uncle until he disappeared beneath that wretched, wizened thing.

Why should she feel this way? Had she not been healed?

She had not even bidden farewell to her Uncle, and he had been lying in state for so long. A tear of remorse slid from her eye and over her nose, but she closed her eyes, trying to blot out the dismal thought of returning home. It was true that Wormtongue was gone, but so was Théodred, so was her Uncle. It was so easy to push such thoughts aside while she was here. She could not picture her kinsmen walking in the foreign halls of the City. Neither could she recall the times when she had cowered in corners like a wounded dog lest her Uncle's servant find her…

Some time later she heard a knock on her door. When she failed to answer, she heard Faramir's voice calling her. "Éowyn?"

She got up, wiping at her eyes, and went to the door. When she opened it she saw a smiling Faramir, whose smile dissipated when he saw her distress.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

"Come in," she gestured.

He stepped inside the room without a second thought and shut the door behind him. Quickly, he kissed her forehead before enfolding her in his arms. She sank against him, pressing her face into his shoulder. He smelled of herbs and…rabbit?

She drew away in confusion. He laughed at the funny face she made. "I dined with the hobbits, and they splattered some stew on my coat."

"I visited them earlier," she said. "They were eating then, too."

"Yes, Pippin said they invited you to supper, but you declined."

"I was not hungry."

Faramir studied her. "Something is the matter, but what it is I am afraid I cannot guess."

As Faramir guided her to a set of chairs before the fire, Éowyn explained her quarrel with Éomer, brushing over the last bit that had caused her to depart so suddenly.

"I do not wish to go home," she admitted. "I do not wish to leave you."

Faramir kissed her hand. "I do not wish you to leave."

"Will you come with me to Rohan?"

His reaction was not what she expected. She wasn't sure what she had expected, but certainly not the reaction she received. Perhaps a playful, "Wherever you go," or at the very least a "We will see." Instead, he sucked in his breath and exhaled slowly as if he were trying to think find a way to break bad news.

"I have many duties here," he said with regret. "Eventually they will subside to some degree, but I cannot put them away now."

"Give them to Húrin," she suggested, persisting against her own better judgment.

Faramir pulled his hand from hers in a way that suggested he might be wroth. This motion alone, this withdrawal from her person, was worse than any refusal. It almost angered her that he could be so callous when she was feeling this way. Éowyn was surprised to find that she could not see what he was thinking.

"I cannot delegate every responsibility to the Warden," he said.

Éowyn lowered her head. "Éomer should not delegate his responsibilities to me," she muttered, though she felt selfish to say so.

"Your brother is the only officer of his kingdom," said Faramir with great diplomacy, "Elessar has many and there is still much work to be done. If Éomer King says you are needed, I would believe it."

Éowyn got up and moved to the other side of the room.

Faramir followed her. "You told me that there were things about your homeland that you missed. Surely you could be content there for a while without me at your side." Then he seemed to think better of it. "Not too content, though. I do want you to return."

Éowyn did not see the humor of the situation. She shrugged his hands off her shoulders. "Just go," she said, not even trying to conceal her disappointment.

"Your arm is cold," he said, ignoring her dismissal. "It was not like this yesterday."

Éowyn sighed. "I went to the Pelennor this morning, as you know. Perhaps it was too much, and I just require rest. Leave me, please?"

"Lady," he told her firmly, refusing to take offense, "You are not fully healed. Whatever shadows you fear today, you did not fear them before. I hope you will remember that while you rest."

"Come to Rohan, Faramir." she tried, one more time. "I cannot heal without you."

But he shook his head. "I regret that I cannot."

"_Will_ not!" she scoffed, only now revealing how incensed she was. "You talk of being healed? You cannot come to Rohan because of you must put your father's affairs in order; but this you could have done weeks ago. And you won't do it now because _you_ are no more healed than I; and you would stay here forever not doing your duty and never come to Rohan."

Something in his eyes flashed, something bright and dangerous, that made Éowyn afraid. She had angered him, and he had hidden it. Swallowed his own retort like he thought it wasn't worth the effort...like _she_ wasn't worth the effort.

_How can I have said such a thing?_ Her mouth quivered. _Say something...say something...Fix it!_

Faramir turned to leave, but she caught his arm. "Faramir…" she stammered, not knowing what she could say.

He said nothing at all, but continued to stand. Éowyn was certain he was angry. Certain that what she had said was unforgivable. Oh, what had made her say it!

Then he did a most surprising thing. Faramir bent low and kissed her hairline, and she did not sense his anger. "Bury the past," he told her, without rising to her abuse. "And fully heal."

She watched him depart from her chambers, fearing that what had passed between them was a good bye. Her whole body went cold, and she felt her legs weaken. Eventually, she collapsed upon her bed with her face buried in her pillow to stop the tears that were threatening to come.

But she did not allow them to fall. Instead she focused on Faramir's words, and her knowledge of his character. He had left her to heal herself, not to escape her company. He loved her. She knew it from the happiness she saw in his eyes whenever they fell upon her or when he touched her. When he had described their future home together.

And he was willing to remain here in the city without her in order to confront his own troubles. So she must return without him to aid her people; and there would be no more running from duty. No more fear.

And he was right. Before today, she had not been so concerned about returning home. Before today her arm had not been cold... It was the Pelennor that was doing this to her.

As she drifted off to sleep, she felt how pleasant it was just to be able to love Faramir. Like the feeling itself could carry her to the height of bliss, knowing it was real and returned and that it would not go away when she returned to Meduseld.

* * *

In the morning she awoke feeling fresh and light, and for the first five minutes of her day she was in a good mood. Then the full horror of her words the night before came back to her.

They had never fought before. What was she supposed to do? Perhaps he had meant to say good bye last night; or perhaps he was angry with her.

All she knew was that the whole situation was embarrassing, and she wanted to put off seeing him for as long as possible...and yet, she longed to find him to apologize. However, she took breakfast in her chambers and did not leave until well past noon, even though she had found that the strength in her arm had returned after a good night's sleep and that the buzzing in her head had ceased. She could have wandered anywhere, but she was unwilling to go anywhere that he might be.

At two o'clock, she was forced outside when the servants came to find her. She found their bustling about and cleaning irritating, and she did not wish to get in the way. But rather than send them away, she exited the room and opted for a stroll in the Queen's atrium.

On the way she passed her brother's chambers, where she found a number of servants packing into chests the gifts Aragorn had heaped upon Éomer. Her breath caught as she realized that meant their departure was even sooner than she had realized. Perhaps the very next morning.

For a few minutes she watched them in silence until a familiar voice caught her attention.

"Good afternoon."

She was almost afraid to meet his gaze, but she met it despite herself. There was no malice in his face; no hint of anger or remembrance of any argument that had passed between them last night. It was tempting just to play along, and yet she knew she must deliver the apology.

He pre-empted her. "Are you feeling well? I heard you did not leave your rooms this morning."

"Were you spying on me?" she asked, playfully. But he seemed hurt by her insinuation, and she stopped laughing.

"No," he said. He stepped backwards a few inches so he was even more enshrouded by the shadows of the hall.

"Can you forgive me for the things I said last night?" she blurted out.

Faramir sighed, and came towards her. "What did you say that was not true? I should have taken care of it before; it would not be so very difficult for me to order his funeral. And he deserves a good funeral, for he was a good man. He tried so hard..."

She put her hand on his cheek, caressing it with her thumb. He was comforted by the touch. And she said to Faramir: 'Now _I _must go back to my own land and look on it once again, and help my brother in his labour."

He seemed disturbed, and shot a glance to the servants packing inside her brother's rooms. Suddenly she realized that he too had been afraid of what their argument had meant. So she moved to reassure him. She stood high on her toes and pressed a kiss against his lips.

"But when one whom I long loved as a father is laid at last to rest, I will return."


End file.
